


melt

by crookedmouth



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: 2021 Pro-Shipping Rarepair Challenge, Aged-Up Character(s), Arranged Marriage, Captive!Yue AU, Desire, F/M, First Time, Loneliness, Not Sure if it Still Counts as PWP when it's Almost 6500 Words But There You Go, Smut, Spicy Fried Fish, The Communication is Shite But The Consent is There, Zhao's a Talker and You Cannot Tell Me Otherwise, Zhayu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:34:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29486847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedmouth/pseuds/crookedmouth
Summary: Zhao returns from a long mission to find his captive behaving, well, like a wife in need of her husband.
Relationships: Yue/Zhao (Avatar)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 32
Collections: 2021 Avatar Pro-Shipping Rare Pair Challenge, Captive AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of AU of an AU...  
> Yue offers herself in exchange for the Moon Spirit and is taken as Zhao's captive bride to the Fire Nation. She's 19/20 in this reimagining.

Somehow it never occurred to Yue that the Fire Nation would have a rainy season. Rain fell so rarely back at the North Pole – temperatures generally never rising enough to allow precipitation beyond snow – but after nearly a solid week of it, the novelty has thoroughly worn off. More or less confined to the halls of the siheyuan, she spends her time reading from the vast collection in Zhao’s library, or writing carefully worded correspondence to her father assuring him of her well-being, inquiring about the state of the Tribe in the long months of her absence. In better weather she might venture out under the watchful eye of one of the servants, might call upon War Minister Yuichi’s daughters for company, but this steady downpour has only lightened to a drizzle once in the past week, and strange as it might be, the Northern Water Tribe princess is rather averse to getting wet.

At least, in that manner.

Of course, the captivity enforced by the rain is really no different from the rest of her marriage. Yue feels like a spectre, haunting Zhao’s halls with her elegantly quiet steps, her demure conversation. It’s been almost half a year since he first threw Hahn’s betrothal necklace into the ocean and replaced it with his own. Since then they’ve spoken the necessary words, their silhouettes anointed in smoke, sacred ash spread across their foreheads by the Fire Sages, their hands bound together with a crimson thread. He has presented her before the Fire Lord, has listened to her counsel regarding the North, and – perhaps most incredibly – has allowed her access to his funds as part of their arrangement.

But the admiral regularly takes his meals in his study, the sliding doors resolutely shut. That’s when he bothers being at home at all, rather than at the royal palace, or down at the harbour, or sailing – as he is now – somewhere along the coast of the Earth Kingdom.

They sleep in separate rooms. 

All of which ought to be more than agreeable to Yue, and indeed, was for the first while. After all, theirs is little more than a political marriage, abruptly entered into out of desperation. Yue refuses to regret it, for her presence there in the Fire Nation means that the Moon Spirit lives, its celestial body still hangs in the night sky unmolested, and her people – though conquered – have an advocate. But it does not change the fact that she is a wife only in name.

And, though it fills her with a sickly shame to admit it, the more that Zhao ignores her, the more she realizes she does not want to be ignored.

Tired of listlessly wafting from hall to hall Yue closes the door of her bedroom – a guestroom, originally, situated along the east wing of the siheyuan – and crosses to check on the shutters of her large window. Outside the rain continues its lulling patter, but the shutters are secure, keeping her room dark and dry, and also cool. Strange to think that after nearly twenty years in the North Pole she should be so accustomed to the warmth of the Fire Nation, could find a little rain to be chilling.

Not that it helps much with the unbearable heat that radiates from her very core, rendering even the delicate silk layers of her hanfu stifling and uncomfortable. Yue runs her hands down the beautiful garment – so very different from the thick, fur-trimmed finery of her own people – before beginning the process of undoing its various fastenings. This state of near-feverish warmth has been going on for several days, coupled with an almost embarrassing level of distraction. It has been difficult for the princess to focus, her thoughts straying to strange, heated places, and her body seems to be in accordance with her mind.

With a rustle, Yue’s hanfu slips from her narrow shoulders and slides to the floor. The cool air of the room sparks gooseflesh across her arms, granting her the chance to actually shiver, but does nothing for the aching way she feels between her legs. If anything, the contrast only worsens the throbbing, the foreign sense of swelling. She stoops to retrieve the bundle of silk – it is too fine a thing to be left discarded on the floor – and folds it, setting it down on the lacquered surface of her desk.

She’s felt this way before, though never in such extremity, and never in such duration. It’s maddening, to be consumed by this base sense of need for something she’s not entirely sure she should even want, that she doesn’t fully understand.

The first time she can recall feeling this way was shortly after her engagement to Hahn. She had known so little about the young warrior beyond her father’s approval and esteem – the mystery had been exciting, and she had gone to sleep several nights contemplating what her first kiss might be like. She had imagined other things, vaguely, but indulging much further was made difficult the more she came to know Hahn. Eventually all sense of ardor cooled within her.

Sokka inspired the feelings anew, but then, they’d really only spent a few days in each other’s company. Their kiss in the Spirit Oasis before he left with his sister to hunt down the stolen Avatar had been sweet but desperate, fleeting. Tinged with a sadness difficult to reconcile with the burning want she feels now. Yue’s not even quite sure _what_ it is she wants – affection, she supposes – but she knows she _wants_ it dearly. She’d caught herself contemplating taking a portion of her robe, or preferably a towel, something thick and coarse, and sawing it back and forth between her thighs. Anything to relieve the aching sting. 

The worst of it, though, is that this sense of her own emptiness echoes a recognition of impotence. She has failed, in some way, and this is both devastating and infuriating, only serves to remind her that she is alone in a country where her title as princess is mere lip service. What’s wrong with her, that she should be incapable of attracting her husband’s interest? Yue is certain she is not considered ugly by the standards of the Fire Nation – different, naturally, perhaps even exotic – yet Zhao barely looks at her when they are in each other’s company. A blow to her confidence or her ego is one thing, she could endure that humbling, but his attention is a thing she _needs_. Not just for herself, but for her people. If she could wield some wifely influence over him, even if it were only a power as shallow as her skin, it would at least grant her some control. Without that, she has no guarantee that he will take her concerns into consideration, and the anxiety of this, the helplessness, only makes her loneliness more pronounced.

Yue lets herself fall back onto the absurdly large bed, listening to the drone of rainfall outside her window. She has been fortunate in her ability to bond with the servants, to transcend their differences of station, and in her unexpected friendship with the war minister’s daughters. But there is still so little contact between them, all the many Fire Nation customs and edicts of propriety holding her at arms’ length, so unlike the jovial jostling of the Tribe. Yue trails her fingers up and down her torso, trying to recall the last time she had been touched by another. It had been Zhao, she realizes, muscles deep within her abdomen clenching at the thought, and it had also been an accident.

She had more or less been in his way, and carelessly, one of his large, warm hands had found her hip as he brushed by.

Yue shivers – entirely unprompted by the coolness of her room – and closes her eyes. There has been so little opportunity for touch that she holds this ephemeral moment tightly in memory. Unthinking, her hand glides to her hip, mimicking that glancing, ghostly caress. A soft whine escapes her lips, and she presses harder with her palm, digging in with her fingertips, trying to imagine what it might have been like if Zhao had lingered instead of hurrying by her.

 _Would his other hand have descended, bracing against her as the first? Would he press up against her from behind, all warmth and hard armour, or would he spin her, pinning her against the wall of the hall?_ Her hands wander from her hips, riding over the tie of her fundoshi – so much thinner than her old sarashi wrappings – tracing the crest of her thigh, moving towards the place where she exudes the most heat. _Maybe the admiral would wrestle a knee between her legs, forcing her to either widen her stance or nearly be lifted off the ground by virtue of his advantage in height. Would she shrink from him, or grip the cloak at his shoulders, tugging him down to meet her already parted lips with –_

Abruptly the princess drops her hands from her body, cheeks burning. 

She feels impossibly stupid, and at the same time almost hates herself for letting such a silly thing as that stop her. All these past days of distraction have condensed into alarming clarity, a sudden understanding that she is inching ever closer to the edge of something she absolutely _must_ be permitted to fall over, never mind what it may take to give her that final push. She just doesn’t know how.

Yue moans in frustration, rocking her head back against her pillow with force. She meets resistance unexpectedly, and reaches beneath the soft mound to retrieve a book. The princess blinks at it uncomprehendingly for a beat, then actually cries out in recognition. The small volume is not part of Zhao’s collection, but a gift from Jianghua, War Minister Yuichi’s eldest daughter. The tall, sleepy-eyed woman had given it to her as a much-belated wedding present, since they had not known each other at the time. It may be exactly what she needs.

She sits up, opens the book, letting her eyes scan over the elegant text. Some of the language is scandalous, some of it teasing insinuation. The real point of fascination for her, however, are the woodblock prints hidden amongst the pages. As with the written portion, some of the images are little more than suggestion – a mess of disheveled clothes and coverings, from which protrude too many limbs for a single person – but others are shockingly informative in their intricate arrangements of flesh. Nor are they all necessarily pleasant. Yue turns the page and is confronted by the image of a large man grappling with a woman. One of her hands presses insistently against the side of his face, the other grasps his wrist between her awkwardly splayed legs, her eyes alive with a fury that none of her printed sisters possess, even in the height of passion. It is obvious the woman’s struggle will be in vain. She is much smaller than her assailant, thin-limbed, while the artist has bestowed upon the man well-defined musculature, an expression of indomitable will, a large and lurid erection. Of all things, the print also depicts him with dark sideburns.

Yue realizes that her breathing has shallowed, that she is clenching muscles she did not even know existed, and turns the page. A gentle roar of thunder courses through her shuttered window.

The next image is much different. A pair of shadows stretch across a thin paper wall, a woman in the foreground with her head turned to listen to the coupling. One hand is at her mouth, tiny squares of teeth visible against the skin of her knuckle, the other once again between parted legs. Instead of resistance, however, she is gracefully explorative. It is an intimate portrait, in all sense of the word.

Unbidden, Yue wonders if Zhao might have any such books hiding on his many shelves, if he has ever felt the same conflicted craving she feels now, inspired by nothing more than lines of ink.

She stares at the printed woman – tries to ignore the two shadows in the background and all that they imply – and then finds her resolve. If her husband doesn’t want her, as he has all but said with his dismissive behaviour towards her, then she’ll just have to want herself. Besides, she may not have another chance. The servants will be largely occupied at this time – the constant rain necessitating that they make regular surveillance of the siheyuan grounds and redirect the flow of water as needed – and Zhao is still several days from shore according to the itinerary he had left on his desk. 

Her fingers fumble momentarily with the tie of her fundoshi, but then she peels it away, surprised by the dampness that has coated the inner cloth. She lays back down, glances one last time at the printed woman before shoving the book back under her pillow, and lets her hand make its descent. 

* * *

Admiral Zhao returns home early, thinking he may have encountered more water falling from the sky than he had the entire time he spent out at sea. He flicks his cloak behind him as he enters his estate, the motion sending a wave of heat across his entire body, rain rising up from him in a cloud of steam. Dry at last, he starts making his way to the kitchen to see if there isn’t a pot of rice or a leftover baozi he might claim for himself, but then he stops. He’s been gone nearly three weeks, a longer duration than any other journey since his return from the North Pole, Northern Water Tribe princess in tow. Surely a proper husband would seek to greet his wife after such a long absence, rather than raiding his own kitchen like a thief.

So Zhao ignores the faint twinge of hunger in his stomach and stalks towards to the eastern wing, trying to tell himself that his actions are motivated by decorum, rather than desire.

Because naturally, he does desire her. How could he not? The princess is one of the most beautiful women he’s ever encountered, and not just because of her spirit-bleached hair. She carries herself regally, but when she lets that slip, allows herself to giggle at the antics of the pheasant-squirrels in his cherry tree or frown in concentration over a pai sho move – she often plays against the elderly groundskeeper – that’s when Yue shines through. And, against his better judgment, Zhao has found that he quite likes whoever that young woman is.

Of course, therein lay the problem. It’s one thing to crave the feeling of her dark skin beneath his hands, to imagine how she might taste, to limit his thoughts to flashes of flesh and glazed blue eyes. To think these things and still be cognizant of her as an individual, as a person with her own thoughts on the matter, _that_ becomes much harder. Especially when Zhao has no reason to believe his yearnings are in any way reciprocated.

She’s his captive, for Agni’s sake, for all the wondrous illusion and chicanery that is their marriage. The princess has every reason to despise him, regardless of how well she has hidden it. 

His hands clench and unclench against his sides as he continues to make his way down the hall.

The only solution that he’s been able to envision has simply been to avoid her. Rather than inflict himself upon Yue, he finds excuses to be elsewhere, to leave her to her own devices. Not wanting her to feel like a prisoner under constant observation – and not wanting to be reminded of the power he technically has over her, which he could abuse at any moment – he has transformed their relationship into one of guest and host. Unfortunately, much as he hopes the princess might interpret this as a sign of trust, Zhao himself is only stymied further by the effort. Hosts are expected to behave very differently from husbands, and though he stubbornly observes these principles of etiquette, the more he forces himself into a role of restraint, the more his mind (and other parts of him) rebel. 

He pauses outside the closed door of the guestroom, wondering then how to justify his presence. He’d set out from the kitchen motivated as a man returning to his home, as a man who wanted to see the pretty face he’d been forced only to imagine for the past three weeks. But those aren’t the motivations of a good host…

Zhao lets out an irritated huff of breath, tired of his own tangled thoughts. He’s not a good man, let alone a good host. He really ought to just stop pretending.

Soured by this truth, he has almost turned around when he first hears the soft noise from the other side of the door. He pauses, furrowing his face uncertainly, taking a step closer so that he might hear better. The sound repeats, louder this time, and Zhao’s stomach flips. It’s a gentle whimpering, choked off at the end as though the princess were trying to swallow the noise before it escaped.

 _She’s crying_ , he thinks. 

Every delusion of goodness surges through him with renewed force, and ignoring all courtesy, Zhao wrenches the guestroom door open, determined to be gallantly comforting.

There is a split second where the world slows, condenses into the singular image of Yue splayed across her bed, her full bottom lip between her teeth, pale eyebrows drawn up in an expression of struggle – confusion and pleasure and frustration all in one – her slender hand rubbing desperately. In that moment, three things happen.

Firstly, Zhao realizes that Yue is not, in fact, weeping. This is followed by the realization that he is blindingly _angry_ with the scene before him, with the thought that he is being left out of this fantasy, that all his claim to the princess can be denied and done away with when he isn’t around. _And after he has been so nice…_

The third thing that happens is Yue hears the door slide shut and opens her eyes.

“ _Ah!_ ” she shrieks, knees shooting up and closed with such force she is nearly launched off the bed. “Ah – Admiral!”

Zhao’s hands are already working at the clasp of his cloak, letting the thick crimson fabric float to the floor. In the dim gloom of her room his honey eyes practically glow, and Yue sees in them only twin furnaces of menace.

“Clearly I have been going about things all wrong,” he growls at her, striding towards the bed. “I had no idea that _my darling wife_ would have such appetites in my absence.”

Doubt roils through Zhao like poison. Her expression suggested nothing but inexperience, but is it possible he has just interrupted something that has happened before? Does she indulge in this e _very_ time he leaves Caldera? His blood sparks with possessiveness, with the sense that he has played the gentle and obliging host for more than long enough.

Yue trembles before him, wide-eyed and drawn tightly in on herself at the head of the bed. Zhao’s nostrils flare with the depth of his inhale at the sight of his betrothal necklace around her throat, and in that moment he is hard and straining.

The princess swallows, tries to protest his intrusive presence, but all that she can stutter out is:

“It isn’t… I wasn’t… I d-don’t…”

“Obviously not,” he snarls down at her, grabbing her knees with intentional meanness, thinking of the unskilled motions of her wrist. “Pathetic. A princess of the Northern Water Tribe and you can’t even get yourself wet.”

He forces her knees apart and down, down, flat against the mattress, completely exposing her. Another second of stunned silence passes between them, in which Yue lets out an indignant gasp and Zhao realizes that he is mistaken, yet again. She practically glistens with want.

He wrenches his eyes away to glare up at her, furiously searching her face for any hint of deception.

“Who were you thinking of?” he growls at her, eyes blazing. “Was it that _boy_ , the one from before?”

Yue lets out another whimper, shaking her head in urgent denial. This only makes Zhao seethe even more, his grip on her legs tightening, palms growing hot. He might have understood – might have forgiven – if she were to have had her former suitor in mind, but if not him, then _who_? He _is not_ going to suffer another man in bed with his wife, imagined or otherwise. He’s no cuckold. 

“Who, then?” he barks, one of his hands straying from her knee to claw at the tender flesh of her thigh.

Though she is bathed in shadow, Zhao can see the flush on her cheeks intensify. Her throat works, the red medallion bobbing against her neck, and she manages to blurt out frantically,

“Y-you! I was thinking about you!”

Zhao got kicked in the chest by a komodo-rhino as a young cadet, once. Hearing Yue confess this has a similar effect on him, nearly knocking all the air out of his lungs. The way she follows the statement by biting her lip uncertainly is almost his undoing. It occurs to him that, while surprised and outraged, she has yet to demand that he leave.

“Is that so?” he purrs in response, most coherent thought completely lost to him at that point. He relaxes his hands, no longer clawing but caressing, delighting in the way she shivers beneath him. Yue, too, relaxes under his touch, sensing that the immediate threat has passed, yet still wound so tightly as to be at her wit’s end. Wanting to encourage whatever inspires an absence of cruelty, she nods her head, and is rewarded when his hand drifts to her swollen centre. She lets out a sharp gasp, startled and also oddly relieved. Just this one touch already feels so different from her own, so much more masterful.

It is the separateness of it, she thinks, the fact that she has no way of knowing where his hand will move or what he will do, that heightens the pleasure of the act.

“Are you saying you missed me that much?” Zhao rasps lowly, looking down at her from beneath hooded, hungry eyes. His fingers grow bold, dipping into a well of moisture and then glide up, warm and heavy, finding with precision a spot she had only ever managed to accidentally brush against. Yue watches him through unfocused eyes, her mouth open, panting. He’s not asking insincerely, she realizes, he _wants_ it to be true.

Not that he’s going to be taking chances on the answer.

Zhao adjusts the angle of his wrist, then begins tracing tight circles, taking note of every hitch in Yue’s breath, every twitch and tremble of her legs. His gaze never leaves her face, however, bearing down on her intensely in the dark. He tells himself he doesn’t care if he is coaxing a lie from her lips, he just wants to hear it, just wants to pretend.

The circles become stripes, and Yue throws her head back against the bed, her hips stuttering to life against his hand.

“Yes…” she whines breathily, shocked by the intensity of the sensation, any lingering bashfulness over her complete nakedness obliterated by the sudden rush of pleasure.

It seems to be answer enough for Zhao. His other hand rides the curve of her hip up the soft expanse of her stomach, coming to fondle and knead her breast. He lets out a groan, finally allowing his eyes to stray from the princess’s face, greedily taking in the rest of her, a vision he has barely allowed himself to imagine. 

“Good,” he grunts down at her, and it’s anyone’s guess as to whether he means her response, her body, or both. Yue writhes before him, her eyes closed in concentration as she chases that elusive yet ever-approaching feeling. The utterly blasted logic remaining in her skull notes that Zhao seems to be stroking her with all the lazy contentedness of a man stirring a pot over the embers of a kitchen fire, and then his hand moves, fingers momentarily retreating, then replaced by the calloused pad of his thumb. The feeling isn’t quite the same, isn’t quite as satisfying, and just as Yue has summoned the audacity to ask him to revert to his previous ministrations, she can feel him prod carefully just a little lower.

She’s so slick he meets only the resistance of her swelling, and with a little pressure, two fingers bury themselves up to the knuckle. Yue chokes out a gasp, clenching at the unfamiliar intrusion, but then those fingers thrust and curl, hitting some part of her that seems meant to devastate. 

“Ohh, _princess_ …” Zhao hisses half in teasing admonishment – as though she has intentionally hidden something valuable from him – and half in praise at the tightness of her body around only his fingers. She moans at that, fisting the sheets at her side and up by her head, letting her lower body rock with his rhythm.

“You like this?” he coos at her, daring to roll and pinch an enticingly brown nipple with his other hand. “Of course you do, you precious, filthy little thing.”

He continues to work her, completely soaking his hand, watching in delirium as the princess begins to hit a point of no return, her legs shaking violently even as she scrabbles for purchase on the bed with her feet.

Zhao lifts his other hand from her breast – somewhat reluctantly – and uses it to support his weight as he leans forward, hovering above her so that he might whisper hoarsely against her ear.

“You like it so much because it’s _me_. Not one of your Water Tribe boys, not the one that was your intended – ” he punctuates each point with a particularly hard thrust, “ – me, your _husband_. A firebender.”

There’s so little room in Yue’s head for cogent thought in that moment, she just nods along, accepting everything he says even as she can only mewl wordlessly. He’s right, though. There’s something wrong with her, something treacherous, she shouldn’t like this, not to this degree, not with him, yet she _does_.

Zhao drags his tongue along the shell of her ear, his breath startlingly hot.

“Show me how a princess greets her husband after he’s been away, Yue.”

The effect is not dissimilar to being hit in the back of the head, only a thousand times more enjoyable. Yue’s whole body stiffens, the throbbing between her legs reaches its peak, and then she’s seeing stars, gasping as wave after wave ripples through her abdomen and lower, limbs melting as the pool of heat at the base of her spine slowly dissipates.

When she resurfaces, Yue realizes that Zhao has righted himself, the hand he had been leaning against now gently stroking along her jaw. Seeing that she is back with him, he tightens his grip, his eyes drilling into her own, pronouncing the command as clearly as if spoken: _watch._

And so she does, mortified horror and uncertainty and inexplicable arousal playing across her face as he slowly extracts his slathered hand from between her thighs and brings it up to his mouth to be licked clean, blazing honey eyes refusing to leave her own. He takes his time with it, actually shudders at the first bitter, peppery taste, working his tongue in dexterous display and promise for her benefit. When his fingers are slick only with his own spit, he releases Yue’s jaw, drawing back the hand to begin working at the straps of his armour.

The vambraces drop first, followed by the pauldrons, then he tugs off each pointy-toed boot, after which his hands settle on his belt. Yue feels herself shrinking again, apprehension and anticipation all wrapped in one as she struggles back on the bed. He raises the thick leather mantle off his shoulders, and Yue experiences a moment of panic – he ought to look smaller without it, she thinks, _why doesn’t he look smaller?_ – but Zhao has already moved on to his chest plate, fingers loosening the fastenings with practiced motion, and then there only remains his uniform. 

“Come here,” he says huskily, gesturing with his hand as he does so. Yue obeys, awkwardly clambering across the bed on her knees. She looks askance at him, unsure of what he wants until he drops his eyes pointedly to the sash at his waist, then back up to her face. She swallows audibly, then reaches out with unsteady hands to fumble with the knot. Zhao’s hands find her waist, steadying her atop the bed, and he buries his face into the crook of her neck, planting hot kisses against her skin.

It’s almost too much. Yue’s hands falter, pressing against the hard surface of his stomach as she shivers.

Zhao mouths his way across her shoulder, then back up her neck, raises a hand to cradle her head as he tongues her ear. “Tell me you want this.”

It is a command, and it isn’t. As before, the correct answer is obvious, but there is also the fact that he does not want to accept a half truth, that he is also asking that her desire be for _him_. Yue forces herself to focus, to make her tongue do something articulate. She thinks of the first woodblock print, how she does not want to struggle and fight her way through something, how breathless he’d left her with just his fingers. How utterly lonely she had felt at the beginning of the day, and how strange it is to hear that same pleading need to be touched, to be loved, coming from Zhao.

Her arms flare to life with conviction, and she jerks the loosened sash away from his waist in answer.

Things move quickly after that.

Zhao pushes her roughly back onto the bed, shrugging out of his tunic, and by the time he climbs on top of her, every other garment has found its way to the floor, too. Yue makes a frightened noise, her eyes darting away, and Zhao actually laughs.

“I thought you missed me, princess,” he taunts, grinning wolfishly down at her. 

She tries to exude the same confidence, the same reassurance of want that she was in such desperate need of earlier, but all she manages is a shy, blushing smile, her brows quirked in apprehension. Zhao ducks his head, capturing her mouth, pulling her bottom lip back with his teeth and then releasing it to snap back against her teeth.

“But then, you can’t really miss what you haven’t had, can you?”

He leans back, repositions himself on his knees and shins, thick cords of muscle visible beneath the skin and dark hair of his thighs. Yue raises herself up on her elbows, tries to see what he is doing, and then suddenly he is dragging her across the bed closer to him by the ankles. She squeals, and then her calves are up against Zhao’s broad shoulders, and _he_ is quite insistently up against her.

“Ah – Admiral – ” she pants breathlessly, her ardor warring with a very real sense of fear.

“That’s not my name, princess,” he growls at her. “You need to know what to scream.”

She blinks at him in confusion, and then he hauls against her legs, pulling her closer even as he tilts his hips forwards, sliding into her. Yue doesn’t quite scream – it is more of a ragged gasp, the first half of Zhao’s name barely making it past her lips before dissolving into wordless noise – and she is grateful when he pauses, blowing a shuddering exhale out of his own lips.

It… doesn’t hurt, exactly, but it certainly is much less comfortable than she had imagined. She’s so much fuller than from his fingers, the pressure within her thicker, reaching deeper, uncompromising. Tentatively, she tries to wriggle her hips – a difficult task, considering they are lifted almost entirely off the bed with the angle of her legs – but the slight motion is enough to shift him against that sweet spot within her.

“Perfect,” Zhao mutters quietly, and Yue doesn’t think he even knows he’s said it, let alone that he’s said it to her. “My pretty little princess… so perfect…”

She whines at the praise, tries to rock her hips, and Zhao snaps his eyes open, growling. He thrusts properly into her, and then he just doesn’t stop. Weighed down with sweat, a few strands of hair escape his topknot, falling into his face, dangling back and forth with the force of his rocking. 

Yue surrenders to it, the discomfort having subsided, letting her head loll back, moaning softly.

After a while she realizes that Zhao has ceased his unfocused blathering, and instead is panting sharply. Her eyes flutter open, and she takes in the sight of him, glistening with a sheen of sweat, the corner of his upper lip curled to reveal his clenched teeth. It’s an expression that suggests he might be in unbelievable pain, but there is a hint of a smile to the grimace, his eyebrows taking on an almost endearing upward turn. It speaks of bewilderment, if anything, of intense concentration on something indefinable. 

“Zhao?” she asks, nonetheless wanting to assure herself that he is alright, and he turns his head to press a kiss against her ankle.

“Yes, Yue?” he replies gently, looking at her slyly from the corner of his eye. He drops one of his hands, trusting her to keep her ankle hooked over his shoulder, and presses his fingers against the soft mound of her stomach. Flattening his palm, his thumb works its way through white curls, catching against the throbbing sensitive point high on her cleft.

Coupled with the hard heat of him pushing and pulling inside her, it is too much. She’s not so much guided towards the precipice as thrown over it, the spasm coming without warning, stronger than the first. It forces tears from her eyes, her hands fisting the sheets so tight as to leave little indentations from her fingernails.

Above her, Zhao watches with glazed eyes, holding on just long enough to bear gratified witness to her undoing, before he makes a muffled, unglamorous noise, and a foreign warmth fills her. 

He collapses beside her on the now thoroughly disheveled sheets, panting openly. Yue lets out a small whine as his body withdraws, the sting of him slipping from her, depriving her of its warmth and fullness, leaving her swollen but empty, all too aware of the mingled wet seepage between her aching thighs. There is a stunned quality to the silence between them, broken only by the ragged sounds of their own recaptured breath, the gentle beating of rain against the shutters of her window.

“Nngh…” Zhao’s voice breaks through the thick barrier of pillow. He turns his head to stare pointedly at Yue, repeating himself.

“Never again.”

The princess can feel her eyebrows draw up in confusion, returning his gaze with one of complete incomprehension, perhaps even a little panic. She doesn’t understand what he’s threatening her with. Is he upset by what has just transpired – by his own violent possessiveness, his apparent physical need – or is it because he somehow finds her repulsive now, and is ashamed of having let their flesh meet? Spirits, he’s just fucked her senseless after months of acting as though she’s nothing more than an inconvenient house-pet, on the rare occasion he has acknowledged her at all. It’s confusing, and while coherent thought is difficult in that throbbing space of afterglow, something primal rises up in Yue to make protest. She _is not_ spending the rest of her life in this forsaken nation, ignored and largely friendless, without more of whatever _that_ was as comfort.

Her mouth opens in preparation to give voice to this, to refuse his vague and absurd declaration, but Zhao moves his arm, and then one thick finger is suddenly pressed against her lips, shushing her.

“No,” he growls breathlessly, “I mean it. Never again. I _am not_ coming home to that a second time. You don’t – you don’t even get to _think_ about touching yourself. It’s… it’s not proper, means I haven’t done my job. No wife of mine should be left wanting.”

Yue blinks stupidly at him, a delay taking place somewhere between the panted words leaving his mouth and disappearing into her ears. “Oh,” she says, simply to fill the quiet that has settled between them.

Zhao narrows his honey-gold eyes at her, still blown wide and dark. He hoists himself up onto his elbows, leaning over her, and Yue watches as his focus strays, those same rapacious eyes sliding down her body before snapping back up.

“Am I understood?”

She swallows, nods her head, still not entirely sure what she is agreeing to but no longer sensing it is a threat. More of a promise.

“Say it,” Zhao demands lowly. “Tell me what you are and what you’re not allowed to do.”

“I – I’m your wife,” she stutters out, realizing it is the first time she has spoken the truth of it out loud. It is only the completely slackened, sated feeling of her body that keeps her mind from rebelling at the phrase, from sending her into panicked conflict. “And I’m… I’m not allowed to t-t-touch myself – ” she can see Zhao’s eyes flash dangerously, squeaks in alarm, correcting herself – “ _Think!_ I’m not allowed to think about it.”

That seems to satisfy him, for he turns himself on the mattress, no longer facedown leaning on his elbows, but resting on his back, one arm draped lazily across his stomach.

“Who is?” he asks her, his tone neutral, almost curious, but somehow no less intimidating than his earlier growled interrogations.

Yue can feel the heat rise to her face, compounding the flushed glow already spread across her cheeks. She has been brave up to this point, has met his burning gaze with her own, but she cannot hold it while she answers this time. She looks away, down to the foot of the bed and beyond, into the dim room.

“You are,” she admits for him quietly, thickly. “Only you.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you are my husband.”

“Good,” he replies, drawing his other arm up and around her, pulling her close, so that her head is supported against his shoulder. Outside, the rain continues to pour and patter against the shutters of her room, a gentle, delicate sound that seems from another world entirely compared to the stifling warmth of her bed.

Zhao’s head tilts and Yue realizes the strange rasp against her forehead is him nuzzling her. The sensation startles her, is so utterly unexpected, but then she relaxes into it. The euphoria slowly eases away, leaving only the dull ache, and where before she was strung so tightly as to hardly even contemplate sleep, now her eyelids can barely stay open. Zhao’s breathing has levelled out – no more ragged, angry sounding gasps – and the steady rise and fall of his chest against her is somehow soothing. It’s not that he seems any smaller now – he doesn’t – but the tone of intimidation has shifted. 

She drifts, the shadows of her room darkening, until she no longer hears the rain.

In the morning, Zhao reminds her what it is to be his. Just for good measure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art history nerds out there might find me to be remiss in not mentioning that the woodblock prints are directly inspired by historical Shunga pieces. 
> 
> Also, for those with keen eyes and memories, Jianghua’s father — War Minister Yuichi — is from another fic of mine: _in absentia_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I wanted was to write more sexy times, but noooo, these two decided they needed to **communicate** (albeit poorly) and have development, or some shit. Typical. *flips table*
> 
> Kind of works for the Hurt/Comfort prompt, I guess, but I'll be writing a proper thing for that separate from this.

Zhao wakes to the gentle drip and patter of rain against a shuttered window, disorientated by the sound coming from a direction it normally does not in his own room. He groans softly, rolling onto his side and easing into consciousness with other realizations. The plush pillow beneath his head is _definitely_ not his – too soft, too clearly unused – and the tie of his topknot has loosened itself and vanished somewhere into the bed, his thinning hair spilling free on either side of his face. Zhao opens his eyes, and instead of the usual empty space, finds himself staring into a cloud of tousled white hair spilling across Yue’s naked back and shoulders. 

The young woman breathes deeply, the sumptuous silk sheet rising and falling with the rhythm of her lungs. Zhao blinks, allows his brain the opportunity to catch up with his eyes as he watches appreciatively, trailing his gaze over curves closely hugged by the bedding. The events of the previous day play out in his mind’s eye – the almost disbelieving angle of the princess’s snowy brows as he introduced her to a new pleasure, the heady taste of her on his fingers, the delicious little noises she had made. The fact that she had _let_ him touch her at all.

It’s a sudden – and while unexpected – incredibly welcome change in their arrangement. After the last several months of doing his level best to avoid her, Zhao might even go so far as to call it a relief. Not just because of the pleasant achiness in his thighs – a feeling he relishes, even as he distinctly wants _more_ – but because it means he no longer has to dread her ultimate rejection of him, no longer has to feel as though he is some sort of monster, keeping her under his roof against her will.

She’s _his_ , now. Properly. They don’t have to be captive and conqueror anymore. 

Much as the thought of sharing his home and his bed with her is thrilling, less so is the tingling of his arm, like several hundred insects nipping under his skin, still trapped beneath the princess’s sleep-heavy head.

Carefully he shifts, adjusting his weight to slide his arm up past her head and then out. As he moves, his hand bumps against something hard beneath the pillow, and instinctively he grabs it, dragging it out with his freed arm.

Zhao holds it in front of his face for a moment, then sits up, letting the silk fall down his chest to crumple into his lap. It is a book – obviously – but it isn’t one that he recognizes, certainly not a recent or memorable acquisition of his own. He opens the book to a random page and holds it close to his face, blinking a few times and squinting intently, trying to focus. It’s no good. The Agni-damned thing has been printed with too fine of characters, the ink swimming and blurring before his weakened eyes as though the paper were wet, forcing the text to loosen and bleed. He contemplates waking the young woman nestled beside him, demanding she satisfy his curiosity about the matter, when there is a gentle knock on the door. It rattles softly along its track and Sun-hee, the head of his household staff, demurely peaks her head into the room, morning light spilling in from the hall behind her. She bears a platter with an assortment of fruit, a small stack of onion cakes, a steaming teapot, and a single cup.

She straightens when she sees Zhao sitting up in the bed, Yue asleep beside him, but does not falter, only quirks her mouth into a knowing smile. Zhao gestures at her from where he sits, holding up the book and then pointing at his face, his finger making a lazy circular motion to encompass the space where his glasses would normally sit. Sun-hee nods, sets the tray down beside the folded hanfu on Yue’s desk, then disappears silently from the room.

Zhao nestles back against the too soft pillows, listening to the steady pour of rain outside. He ought to be writing out reports of his latest mission, should be checking up on the state of his affairs during his absence, yet he finds the thought of leaving the wonderful warmth of the bed wholly uninspiring. Beside him, Yue murmurs unintelligibly in her sleep, rolling onto her back. The silk sheet spills down, exposing her breasts, the cool air of the room causing her dark nipples to pebble and harden, and that rather cinches it for Zhao. He’s not going anywhere for a while.

Sun-hee returns a few moments later bearing both her master’s glasses and an additional cup for tea. She retrieves the tray from where she left it, carefully depositing it on the bed between Zhao and Yue. Zhao supposes he should have made some effort to cover her, tells himself he opted not to on the off-chance the movement would wake the princess and not, as might be more accurate, because once covered he might feel a little guilty for uncovering her again.

The matronly servant raises an eloquent eyebrow, and Zhao offers her a smile and a dismissive shake of the head – _no, there is nothing else he has need of_ – and she bows herself out of the room, gently sliding the door closed behind her.

Now merely an arm’s length away, the rising steam of the tea and the sharp, salty smell of the onion cakes fill Zhao’s nose, broken through with the sweet and citrusy notes of fruit. His mouth floods, and he recalls his arrested mission in the kitchen the previous evening, wondering just how many hours have transpired since food passed his lips. The book closes with a quiet snap, coming to rest in his lap as he reaches over to pour himself a cup of tea and tear almost half an entire onion cake into his mouth.

He chews voraciously, swallowing down thick chunks of the flavorful dough. The cakes are an indulgence for him, too heavy for regular consumption, but then – he looks across at the Northern Water Tribe princess, her mouth now parted to let out soft, whining breaths of sleep – the theme of his entire morning seems to be indulgence. 

He licks the grease from his thumb, takes a sip of the tea – a gentle green blend – and then returns to the book in his lap, glasses now perched upon his nose. Again he finds a random page, but instead of text, Zhao finds himself confronted with the image of a woman bent over what looks like a raised garden box, the man behind her pressed close into her back, his arm hooked beneath one knee to hoist her leg off the ground. Characters dribble down the terraced garden wall like vines, and in the corner is a lavender bush. It’s hard to think of the image as vulgar with such attention to minor, pleasant details.

Zhao flips the page, scans his eyes over a particularly dark tale involving a fisherman’s wife waylaid by two malevolent water spirits while diving for precious shells, and tries to ignore the slow thickening between his thighs. The story and the image aren’t entirely the cause, though it would be an outright lie to deny their erotic appeal. No, what stirs his blood is the notion of Yue being in possession of such a thing in the first place. It’s _baffling_ – where did his sweet, decorous little wife get her hands on a book like this, and _why_? – but it’s also aggravating.

She has no idea what these past months have been like for him, the struggle that he has forced upon himself.

He’s been dutiful, a faithful husband. There have been infinite opportunities to misbehave – and after all, why not, as she had given him no hint of wanting to consummate any aspect of their relationship – and he has denied himself all of them. What’s more, he’s tried his hardest not to indulge in the filthy thoughts that invade his head, to have some self-control, even though what takes place in the confines of his mind can hardly hurt or offend her. All that restraint, all that effort and consideration of her comfort. It’s fair to say that Zhao has never put someone before him as he has the princess, and yet here she is, in possession of a book whose very function is to inspire lust.

Somehow he doubts that she had really been giving much thought to _him_ or _his_ comfort when she engaged with this material.

Zhao glances over at Yue with something – not quite anger, not quite hurt – sparking in his eyes. Suspicion, perhaps. There is, and always has been, something of a gap between what he wants, what he thinks he _should_ want, and what is reasonable to expect he’ll get when it comes to the princess, he realizes. That yesterday should somehow have seen the first transpire now seems like something of a hollow victory.

It’s stupid, so very stupid, and he doesn’t even know where the thought comes from because the end result isn’t really much different, but he doesn’t want to be used as a tool for her own satisfaction. Doesn’t want his body to be a source of heat and joy separate from himself. He’s not a man to settle for half-measures, and he certainly has no desire to _be_ one. Not now, when it finally seemed like he was on the verge of something wonderful. 

Decisively, he sets his teacup on the platter, and then lowers the whole arrangement to the floor. Outside, there comes a quiet roll of thunder.

Zhao lightly touches one corner of the book to Yue’s collarbone, then drags the book down, watching as a thin line of skin raises in its wake. He makes it to the swell of her breasts, is almost inching down the valley between them, when Yue startles awake.

“Oh,” she breathes softly, almost uncertainly, upon seeing him. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, princess,” he purrs down at her.

Yue moves her arm to draw the covers back up, and Zhao presses the corner of the book a fraction harder in warning, halting her motion. She looks down at the source of pressure against her chest, and Zhao watches as mortified recognition plays across her face. He drags the book to the side, riding over the curve of one breast, adding casually,

“How are you feeling?”

The corner of the book scrapes against her nipple, and Yue flinches. She dares to frown at him, reaching up and grasping his wrist, lifting it and raising the book from her body. It’s a startlingly bold move, somehow, this assertion of will, and there is a brief moment where both Zhao and she can only stare at their point of contact. It is the first time Yue has ever touched him.

“I… I slept well,” she pronounces the words carefully, as though surprised by their truth. Then she adds, almost shyly, “But I’m a little sore, to be honest.”

It’s something of an understatement, actually. Yue’s fairly certain if she were to angle a mirror down there she might find bruising from where the harsh ridge of Zhao’s hips collided against her, but it’s not altogether painful. What’s truly novel is this level of communication, absurd as that is. He asks a question about her welfare, she answers in earnest. Such a simple thing, so utterly normal, yet it feels almost momentous for them after so many months of exchanges amounting to little more than an acknowledgement of title. Still, she’s committed to it. She has to be. Everything about their arrangement has changed, and if they’re really going to start being companions to one another, Yue supposes they ought to be able to at least sustain a conversation.

Zhao tears his eyes from her slender hand on his wrist, moves his arm just enough to break her hold and set the book down back at the head of the bed.

“A little sore, are you?” he repeats, without a trace of remorse in the smoky tones of his voice. He’s half tempted to advise she get used to it, for she’s going to be sore fairly frequently if he has his way, but he reels the impulse in, considers a more appealing alternative.

“Let me help with that.”

He slides down from his seated position, one leg shifting over Yue’s own beneath the silk sheet, knees and ankles hooking to draw her open, hold her in place. She makes a startled noise, reaches out to press against his shoulder, but then Zhao captures both her wrists in one of his hands and pins them above her head. He drops his head, kissing along her throat, laving his tongue against her pulse, relishing the way he can feel her suck in a breath. 

Making his way lower, he brings his other hand to tease along her breasts, watching and listening for how she responds to the featherlight touches of his calloused hand. He had been so hasty the previous evening, moving from anger to intrigue to lust in such rapid succession, there really hadn’t been room in his brain for the necessary patience of exploration. He had done as he always does – conquered – but he wants this morning to be different.

Zhao busies his mouth lower and lower, peppering kisses and scraping his teeth against the skin of the princess’s collarbone, smirking every time she flinches against the tickle of his sideburns. He may want to take his time, but perhaps a little discomfort on her part is gratifying, too. The book still weighs on his mind, titillating and taunting all at once. The mystery of it is one thing – he’ll find out when and how she procured it easily enough – but it’s more than just that. Despite his threat and his forbiddance, there is something undeniably exciting about the thought of Yue reading through such a volume, abandoning the strict protocol of her station to find the far more worldly comfort of release.

There is, however, the much less enticing fact that he has no guarantee of what might be going through her head in such stolen moments. It isn’t that he wants to control what she thinks, he just… desperately wants reassurance. The arousing potential of her ownership of the book would be so much greater, so much sweeter, if he could believe she actually did have him in mind. If he could trust his attentions weren’t being attributed to someone else.

He wants to – she had told him as much yesterday, after all – but it is difficult. 

The admiral distracts himself by gliding his tongue in a wet, hot trail up the underside of one breast, pausing to flick and tease the hardened peak. Yue writhes beneath him, arching her back not in struggle, but in offering, and with that encouragement he continues. He releases her wrists, resting his weight more evenly on his elbows, using his newly freed hand to grope and stroke her supple flesh.

Yue drops her arms from where they lay above her head, bringing them down after a moment’s hesitation to carefully run her fingers through Zhao’s hair. The unexpected touch, the gentle scrape of her fingernails against his scalp, sends a shudder through him. His jaw tightens, teeth closing around the nipple he’d been greedily sucking against moments ago, and this prompts a moan from the princess. It’s an intoxicating combination – her noise and touch – and Zhao lets out a rumbling groan of his own.

The sensation of her hands in his hair is powerful, unfamiliar. He honestly can’t remember the last time someone else touched him there – it simply isn’t done – and he doubts the princess has any idea just how significant the placement of her hands is. She’s allowed, of course, as his spouse she is one of very few people intended to share this privilege with him, but it is still strange, still impossibly intimate. Warmth shivers along the length of his spine, and he feels himself stiffen against her thigh. 

Zhao raises his head to look at her, finds that his glasses are fogged from the heat of his breath against her skin. Yue returns his stare, her cheeks flushed. She giggles when she sees his glasses, pulls her hands from his hair and delicately lifts the thin wire from behind his ears, setting them down near the book by her head.

“That… helped,” she tells him, clearly making an effort to speak her mind. “It felt nice. Thank you.”

She means it, too. The soreness of earlier has been eclipsed by a renewed throbbing of want. 

Zhao chuckles up at her, teetering on the edge of incredulity at being _thanked_. “So polite, princess.”

He plants a soft kiss in the valley between her breasts then abruptly asks, in all seriousness,

“Why did you let me touch you, yesterday?”

The young woman raises herself on her arms, looking down at him quizzically. The flush on her cheeks deepens, and she bites her lip. It’s clear this is not the same kind of query as those he ambushed her with the previous evening, where the answers were obvious regardless of whether she accepted them. This is different, her response cannot be scripted. Despite her earlier conviction on the importance of communication, Yue balks at the thought of answering in full.

Her pause drags throughout the room, and Zhao narrows his eyes. He supposes it isn’t a simple question for her, but the length of time it takes for the princess to formulate an answer sets him on edge. 

“I was lonely,” she finally confesses, and something ugly rears inside of Zhao.

“Oh, that’s all? So any man would have sufficed?”

Yue scowls, frustrated by his seemingly intentional misunderstanding. How can she explain to him everything that led up to that moment, all the fear and confusion – the insecurity about her body, her inexperience – and the accompanying conflict at being made to want something, _someone_ , so foreign to her? Somehow she’ll just end up wounding his pride more if she elaborates, she’s certain of it.

“It isn’t like that,” she huffs, trying to shift out from underneath him, but the admiral’s weight keeps her in place, his one leg curling even tighter around her own. So possessive. There’s something expectant in his expression she realizes, something that isn’t just outrage. It might actually be the shadow of injury.

“And what of you, admiral? You were quick to ask if I missed you, but did you miss me, or would any woman at port have been enough?”

The biting tone to her voice is almost a surprise to Yue. She can hear Zhao’s teeth click together as he closes his mouth. A hot breath forces its way out through his nostrils, and his honey eyes flicker like flame. He holds her gaze like that for a moment, then drops his mouth back to her breasts with renewed roughness. So, they’re being honest with each other now, are they? _Fine._

“I thought about you all the time, princess,” he growls against her skin, his lips working with bruising force. “Thought about your face, those blue eyes of yours… wondered what you were doing, what you’d taste like…”

Yue whimpers deliciously for him as his teeth and tongue wage a veritable assault against her heaving chest.

“Thought about my face between your legs… how _good_ your pretty little mouth might feel between _mine…_ ” 

She lets out a scandalized gasp, and he hoists himself up yet again, coming to lean above her, the sudden break in their contact adding weight to his words.

“So yes, I missed you.” 

He nods his head towards the book and Yue follows, tilting her head in its direction.

“Is that why you have this?” he asks. “Because you miss me when I’m not around?”

The princess steadies her breath, struggles to ignore the incredible sense of need between her thighs, but her voice is level when she answers.

“It was a gift, Zhao. And what I missed was being treated like a person, being listened to, offered some affection. You… you ignored me so much, it was hard not to be lonely.”

Zhao wracks his recent memory for who could have been the source of such a gift, recalling a discrete package in Yue’s hands after a visit to one of the war minister’s daughters. Somehow the thought of another woman giving it to her is both placating and thrilling. He rather doubts that old Yuichi has any idea what his girls get up to, and this is just another revelation.

He tries not to focus too much on the rest of what Yue admits – that his intentional distance-keeping between them may have been just a little too effective. He wants the relief of knowing he is wanted without the guilt of having hurt her to get to that point. 

“And did you find anything that you liked?”

Yue blinks at him, and Zhao reaches over, grabbing the book and dropping into her hands. Understanding dawns on her face, another blush blooming fresh across her cheekbones. The admiral’s eye are rapt and burning, his voice low and husky as he prompts her,

“Show me.”

She hesitates for a moment, but then the princess opens the book and flips through the pages, coming to land on a print near the back of the collection. Zhao peers down at it, letting out a bark of laughter.

“I suppose it only makes sense for a princess to want a throne to sit on.”

Yue has just enough time to register the innuendo, and then he’s moving the book from her hands, repositioning them both, lifting her up into strong arms and setting her down to straddle his lap. Her hands come to rest against his chest, thumbs tracing idle circles through the sparse thatch of hair there. Zhao’s own hot palms fall to her hips, tugging gently, and Yue finds herself rocking along to his guidance. The friction it provides her, the pressure of his hard length against her ache, is like a balm. Soon enough his hands are merely resting, and the princess rubs and grinds of her own accord. 

Zhao lets out a hiss as – after a particularly deep stroke of her hips – the tip of him catches at her entrance, his hands clawing against her skin, begging her to sink down. She does, with excruciating slowness, her mouth falling open to release a cry of pleasure. It’s completely different like this, she’s so much more aware of him, can feel every aspect of the penetration. She pauses when he is only half buried, quivering. Everything is so swollen and tight, so sensitive. 

A strange thought runs through her mind, that Zhao is both the problem and the solution, for there is no doubt that the residual tenderness from last night has only been heightened by his ministrations this morning, accentuated and worsened by their union, but at the same time she is so exquisitely full, the pressure and stretching leaving her with a strange sense of completeness. So good. He feels so good inside.

She lets herself sink, feels him hit that devastating point within her, and moans raggedly.

Beneath her, Zhao watches with rapt fascination as Yue’s eyelids flutter, the wonderfully breathy noises slipping past her teeth seemingly torn from her throat. It is immensely gratifying, to think that he is causing this reaction, that he is the source of this great and involuntary delight. No one else gets to provide her with this – only him.

He cups his hands beneath her rear, lifting her just a little, just enough that he might roll his hips to ease out and then claim her again in a long, slow, firm stroke.

“Ahh, like that, princess?” he growls as he watches her mouth drop, her brows drawing up tightly. She trembles, her hands sliding up to grasp his shoulders weakly, and he repeats the motion, fucking into her with more restraint than he’s approached most things in his entire life. It’s worth it, the way she mewls helplessly, clenching around him with each thrust. 

They continue like that for some time, slow and deep, the sound of rain outside a gentle backdrop to their panting breaths. Then Yue tenses, a strangled whimper working through her bitten lip, shuddering in anticipation. 

“Look at me, Yue,” Zhao commands her hoarsely, needing her to see him, to know that no one else is in her head in that moment, that she can’t associate these feelings with anyone else. The young woman opens her eyes, blue and barely focused, her jaw slack. She does as bid, looking at him, taking him in. Then, much to the admiral’s surprise, her hands roam up from his shoulders and into his sideburns, and she draws him to her in an open-mouthed kiss. 

It’s unskilled but genuine, her tongue sweeping against the seam of his lips a little sloppily. He doesn’t care. Much like the sensation of her hands in his hair, this is something he has not experienced in a very long time. It, too, is potently intimate – kissing insists upon a closeness, a vulnerability, far beyond the usual demands of sex.

In the end it is Zhao who fails in keeping his eyes open, his mouth meeting hers with crushing, jubilant force, capturing every moan avariciously. 

Head spinning, Yue peaks with the next slow drag of his body within hers. Her muscles contract powerfully, a flood of hot pleasure that spreads, pulsing, throughout her body. It’s different from before – something about her position, perhaps – is agonizing in its duration, the teasing build-up. To her embarrassment she thinks her eyes might cross momentarily.

She slumps against Zhao’s chest weakly, feels him lean forward to cradle her in his arms, bury his face in her, continuing with shallow little thrusts into her. 

“Good girl,” he groans his praise breathlessly into the fresh snow smell. “Such a good girl for me.”

With her loose in his grasp he begins moving his hips in earnest, close, _so close_ , and loses himself to honesty between panted gasps.

“See? You can be happy here… with me… _I_ can make you happy, make you feel _good_ princess… We can have a good marriage… we can… we can…”

It sounds almost like a mantra stuttering out of his lips, as though he is trying to convince himself of its plausibility as much as cajole and comfort her. So different from the confident growls of before. Just as Yue comes back down from her incredible, shattering height, she feels him find release, his hips bucking and pressing hard against her. As he lets out a choked snarl into her hair, throbbing deep with her, Yue finds herself wondering which version is the most true – or if, perhaps, like the moon, the admiral’s many faces are merely a matter of how much light is allowed to shine upon them.

She slides off him messily, and he falls backwards onto the pillows with a groan.

When they have collected their breath, Zhao reaches down and lifts the long-forgotten tray of food back onto the bed. He wraps his hand around the teapot, focusing his inner fire in a delicate demonstration of control. In moments, it is fragrant and steaming again.

He pours a cup for the princess, thinking on an old platitude that General Iroh had once spouted about tea and the trick to a proper brew. Yue’s fingers linger on his own as she takes the cup, thanking him with sincerity and no small measure of fascination at his firebending.

 _Well_ , he thinks. _It’s a start._


End file.
